


To The Things That Almost Were

by SumthinClever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Slash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:11:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumthinClever/pseuds/SumthinClever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to Impractical Beekeeping's "Don't Is Not The Same As Haven't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Things That Almost Were

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impractical Beekeeping (Impractical_Beekeeping)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impractical_Beekeeping/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Don't Is Not the Same as Haven't](https://archiveofourown.org/works/513943) by [Impractical Beekeeping (Impractical_Beekeeping)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impractical_Beekeeping/pseuds/Impractical%20Beekeeping). 



> Beekeeping, I hope you don't hate me for creating one of the ends I said I wanted here. xD!
> 
> To those that haven't read the original- read it; it's fantastic. Further, this may not make much sense without.

To The Things That Almost Were

Victor let his guide dog lead him to a table at an outdoor café. Edith, he’d decided to call her. Not nearly so loyal or friendly as Gladys, but a lot better at her job. She took the job seriously, as Gladys was only partially wont to do.

Victor was new to London. He spent a good deal of each day lately acquainting himself with the territory. It wasn’t easy. The noises proved an undeniable distraction to him accurately and concretely placing locations in his Mind Home. Too many rooms seemed to change from day to day and he’d find himself lost in his own Home.

And the _people_. London was _teeming_ with them. And nothing could turn Victor around, both physically and mentally, faster than being constantly surrounded by a hundred Londoners.

Victor sat at the café and pulled out his book. This was a place he’d happened upon when his guide was showing him about the city the week before. It had seemed tucked away and quiet- well, as quiet as any part of London could get, anyway- and Victor decided this could be his haunt.

He ran his fingers over the familiar pages, the bumps that helped him “read” the story. Braille was actually a source of pride for Victor. He could actually _feel_ the words. Few people are quite so touched when reading a story.

Being blind, Victor’s other senses heightened in order to compensate for the one he lacked. His hearing was especially keen now.

Mostly, when he was reading, Victor drowned out his surroundings, let it all fade to background noise. He knows Edith will alert him if anything arises that he need be made aware of. But just then, there is a sound, a voice, that strikes a chord in Victor’s memory. Flashes of summer, and his father, and the university that he left, and forcibly forgotten companions and the feelings they produced- both good and bad-, and the world-shattering ending they endured that took Victor years to get over, if not wholly forgive.

The voice is saying seemingly unrelated things about mud and sediment and Cornwall. Victor does not try to piece these things together. He cannot unify the voice in his ears with the vague recollections of the boy it had belonged to in his head. Surely, of all of the cafes in the whole of London, they had not happened upon the same one. Surely, he was not so close to being face to face with-

“Sher-?” he started.

The moment the syllable left his mouth, the voice a short distance away noticeably ceased, its ramblings cut off as completely as if someone had hit a switch on it.

“Sherlock?” Victor finally got out. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it, couldn’t imagine what he’d say if the man actually answered.

He needn’t have bothered worrying on that score. The voice didn’t justify him with a reply, but Victor heard a chair screech back from where the voice emanated from before a barked order of “John!” preceded what Victor was certain was a dramatic exit. The sound of the displaced air gave off the impression of a long coat susceptible to flying in the wind.

“Er,” Victor heard a second voice say before another chair was much more sedately pushed out from the direction Sherlock had once occupied. He could feel a pair of eyes staring at him , trying to see into him.

“Right,” the voice continued, filled with blatant curiosity. Victor couldn’t satisfy it. There were no words for what he had once been to Sherlock Holmes, and none that beared voicing to say what he clearly was now.

The other man, John apparently, left without another word. Victor was alone again, in his dark world, devoid of light and his father and Sherlock. Then again, he supposed those were all the same thing.

For the first time in years, Victor sat and thought about the boy that saw too much.

**Author's Note:**

> This actually isn't what I'd had in mind when I started writing, but my pencil rarely listens to me, anyway. I've another alternate end that I'd like to create. We'll see where that one goes.


End file.
